Even in Death
by Dark Austral
Summary: Spoilerish for 5.4: Alastair finds a new life topside.


Disclaimer: Don't own Supernatural, no matter how many times I summon the Crossroads Demon.

A/N: Don't ask me where this came, it just came one night. Heads up, spoilers if you haven't seen 4.16 'Head on the Pin' or 5.4 'The End.' Otherwise, slight cursing, so being careful here and making it M, my first mature fic. Wow.

**Even in Death**

Alastair dances in and out of the golden flames erupting down on him. Outside a thin yellow line, pure blackness swallows the rest of the world. Nothing exists beyond the light. All importance lies within the circle. A circle of pure, absolute freedom.

No whining bitches telling him how to run his job for the sake of his boss. _Lilith_.

No wise-cracking smug bastards rubbing it in that he's more special than you. _Azazel_.

No stubborn ass mule of a soul, cut off and accepting, doesn't even snarl back. _John_.

Nope it's just him and his boy in this wasteland of decay. Here in this crumbling, pitiful excuse of existence people call "life", the stench of fresh rotting organisms seeps into every grain and pore of each soul living.

His boy, his pride and joy, shifts behind him. The ever twisted self-loathing, irreparable broken soul of Dean prowls in the darkness beyond the circle. Those cold dead green eyes peer out relishing all control over to him at the moment. A student waiting in the wing of the teacher bows down those lovely eyes. Sickening trust oozes between them, acknowledged by a slight nod.

They both know what needs to be done. And neither complains. A long wicked grin spreads like oil on Alastair's chiseled face as he tilts his head downwards to gaze upon the center.

The captured soul twists and screams, bright hazel eyes screaming with hatred, agony and longing. Maroon red flakes flutter to the ground like snow, coating the skimpy white night gown of his latest victim. Long manicured fingers wrestle on the dripping wet chain. Stretched out before him like a deer waiting to be processed, Alastair hums in appreciation. Dean knows how to please him.

Taking a shuffled step forward, the Torturer flicks his gaze down noticing the small wide saw in his calloused hand. A ring of white flesh against tan scars his right ring finger hinting at a long lost object. Alastair breathes deeply, his mouth thinning into a tight smirk. Lowering himself into a crouch, he slides his eyes over the voluptuous female settling on resolute black eyes.

Reaching out with his left hand, his fingers lock themselves around her thin ankle, resting cold metal teeth just underneath. He moves in and out, the meaty sound of his saw slicing through flesh and bone cover the gagged whimpers. Sweat trickles down, adding the much needed spice into the bitter air. As he works, Alastair writes a mental note to tell Dean to kick on the heater once in a while. He does hate this artic crap hole, missing the volcanic heat of the Pit.

"I'm only going to ask once." Alastair drawls out, a lisp added to the rasp of his voice.

The bound victim shakes its blond damp hair, raining blood and sweat down upon him. Rolling his eyes Alastair steps back, rising swiftly, avoiding the thump and splash as a foot falls onto the sawdust covered floor. A snap of his boot sends the appendage skidding outside his realm. Twirling the saw in his hand, Alastair leans in, tapping the flat blade against smooth white silk. Clinking chains with a hint of scrapping toe nails try to move her body away from the sadistic madman.

Alastair's hand snaps out, tightening on the back of her neck, smooth hair tickling against his skin. "Just say what I want to hear and all the pain will end."

Empty lies twisted in truth add a deep gash to his canvas. The Head Master dangles salvation and damnation before his starving victim. Dean has worked on her for the better half of the day. His more careful non-evident devices seen as clear as day to the master through the shaking and glistening red mouth. Pain crazed eyes flash with doubt, sweet surrender taking hold in the salt riddled mind. Then that stubborn streak is back with a snarl behind the dripping once-white but now liver black gag.

Shaking his head Alastair steps back to the edge of the circle; the heat of the light bulb crashes with artic air seeping from the cabin door. "If you think _he_ cared for you, then you're wrong. _He's_ out there this very instant busying himself with other demons, other vile creatures than bothering to save your sorry ass. Hell, I bet _he_ has already replaced you."

The victim snarls curses, blood spilling out from the amputated leg. Her other foot twists smearing the red liquid onto a carved devil's trap. Turning his body slightly, Alastair's drenched covered fingers rimmed with dirt run down the list of knives and other sharp objects all laid out for him on the small rickety table.

At the end of the line is a dented, bended silver spoon.

"Come on, just tell me and I promise you a nice fast death." The lie falls easily out between two thinned pink lips covering a pair of straight white teeth.

Out of the side of his vision, the hair shakes sideways. Nodding, the torturer lays down the saw, picking up the spoon in an almost grace like manner. Leaning sideways, he dips the spoon in the bowl of holy water before coating it heavily with salt. Sliding a step back, Alastair flicks his gaze upwards into the dark waiting for any objection from his audience.

Dean inches towards the pale thin line. Rage boils, tinging the cold air with the heat of his never ending cursed existence. It warms Alastair immensly and he wants nothing more than to burn in that fire.

Pivoting, Alastair reaches out once more, grabbing a handful of long hair, yanking the head back. He falls into the fiery sea of Dean's hatred, drowning himself contently. Cold fury tightens his hardened face framed by cropped dirty blond hair. Blazing green eyes lock onto terrorized black.

"Where's your boss?" Dean's raspy voice snarls out, losing its lisp.

Resting the spoon at the left eye's tear duct, the hunter's face darkens, freckles blending in with blood splatter. The threat is loud and clear, no games begin played here. Dean thunders quietly once more from the darkness. "Where's Lucifer?"

The demon's black eyes bleed into a lunatic's glee. Laughter racks the long-dead possessed body mocking the hunter's attempts. And he knew; they both did. She wasn't going to talk, just like the other three before her. Dean's hatred freezes, cracking and coiling into despair ridden chains. The weight of his existence to kill the Devil locks him in that dark cell, dread of knowing he needs to catch another demon, maybe one higher up pulling him away.

Rising from his pleasant rest, Alastair feels his other self drift into the volcanic pitch of his fractured soul. Blinking, he breaks his long-distance gaze, Dean's anger morphing into his blood-curdling joy. Rolling his shoulders, Alastair relishes the complete control for there was no supervision this time.

All is quiet except for the beating of Dean's heart and the whimpered chuckles of the demon.

Licking his lips, Alastair cups the demon's face before his chest. "Sorry about that, Dean can be a bit impatient. But it's just you and me, now sweet heart." He purrs softly, the rasp of Dean gone, his boy's voice all his own. Bending down, he sniffs running his nose against the soft forehead, lips ghosting over the cooling skin. "Shall we play my favorite game Operation?"

A muffled screech punctures through the gag as the spoon digs into its target. The sound bleeds unheard through the rickety dry wood of an isolated cabin cut off from the rest of the camp, lost forever in the insane shattering of Dean Winchester's mind.

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A.N. Thanks for reading!


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